Floria had never entertained the idea of trusting people—not even those closest to her, for they were often the first to drive a dagger into one's back.
To humans, Floria was merely a twenty-year-old woman who managed her late father's library. Yet if the truth of her existence were known, the very earthlings who smiled at her would have been the first to set her aflame, branding her a threat. Humans would light the fire, while vampires would stand aside, whispering poison into their ears—guiding them to destroy the outcast who might one day rival them. It brought them satisfaction to ensure that no one ever rose higher than them in the food chain. After all, hybrids already existed—beings stronger than any pureblooded vampire or witch—while humans were scarcely considered at all.
There was no right or wrong in it. It had always been simple: kill or be killed.
Floria herself was a hybrid—meant to have lived in the Fairy Lands, had it not been for the Meren blood coursing through her veins. A Meren was the male hybrid offspring of a merman and a siren, while the female hybrids were called Merean. Being a hybrid came with both gifts and curses. Immense abilities were balanced by cruel limitations—chief among them the inability to find a compatible half. Each hybrid lived by strict biological terms, and failure to meet them shortened their lifespan drastically. That was why only a rare few survived.
Floria was one of them.
She deliberately offered the fair vampiress a drink, which Salvia accepted with visible delight. As Floria handed her the glass, their fingers brushed—and in that instant, Floria's gaze locked with Salvia's eyes.
Thoughts spilled unguarded.
She doesn't remember me.
Images surged into Floria's mind: a little girl clutching a stuffed rabbit, looking up at her with hopeful eyes.
"You will come again soon, right?"
Her younger self replied with a bright smile.
"Yes. Sal—Mama said once we're done keeping things in boxes."
Laughter echoed—clear, childish, painfully vivid.
Tears welled in Floria's eyes as she felt the deep sadness and longing radiating from the vampiress. The ache was unmistakable.
"Sal…" she whispered unconsciously.
Being a pureblood vampire, Salvia heard it with perfect clarity.
Her head snapped up. Seeing tears in Floria's eyes, Salvia's heart clenched. She dared to hope—after all these years—that her friend might finally recognize her. Every step she had taken to Floria's old home, every unanswered visit, came rushing back. She remembered being scolded repeatedly for wandering the streets alone until she turned sixteen—until she finally understood that Flor was never coming back.
They had been friends for several precious years. Salvia had been slightly older then, owing to the difference in vampire aging. She knew that human children often forgot their earliest memories—but vampires, especially purebloods, remembered far more.
With trembling hesitation, she asked,
"Do you… do you remember me, Flor?"
Floria had vowed never to trust anyone, yet the pain and affection she sensed from Salvia pierced straight through her resolve. It was not that Floria had forgotten her—it was that the Montanores' ascension to the Dukedom had forced a cruel separation. Ties had been severed, relocations enforced.
She knew exactly why those memories had been buried.
And who had buried them.
To Salvia, Floria had been a four-year-old human child when they met. In truth, Floria's aging had halted at five—for three long years—before resuming again. Now, to the world, she appeared twenty. Her unnatural age was one of the many reasons her family had been forced to keep moving.
Floria had never been one to involve herself deeply with others—but that did not mean she lacked compassion.
"Sal… I'm sorry… I—"
The words failed her.
Instead of anger, Salvia pulled her into a sudden embrace.
"It's alright, Flor. I'm not angry," she said softly, her voice trembling. "But why did you leave without even saying goodbye?"
Before Floria could respond, Salvia released her as a tall, well-dressed brunette man approached, holding a glass of blood wine. His eyes were a striking crimson—the unmistakable mark of a pureblood. The deeper the red, the stronger the vampire.
"Good evening, Lady Salvia."
Though his smile was polite, Floria sensed something ominous beneath it. She noticed Salvia's shoulders stiffen.
"Good evening, Mr. Davies. It's… good to see you here," Salvia replied, her tone distant and stern.
"Oh, how could I not be?" he said casually. "Mr. Hetlore insisted. And there are financial disputes among our dear fellow ministries that require discussion."
Warren Davies' gaze shifted to Floria. It wasn't her fair hair that held his attention—it was her eyes, clear and crystalline. She looked like a lamb standing amid wolves, blissfully unaware of how easily she could be devoured.
"Good evening, Miss—"
"Chamber."
Both turned sharply at the interruption.
"That is Miss Chamber, Mr. Davies," Salvia said quickly.
Warren raised an unconvinced brow. "I believe the lady has her own voice, considering how comfortably she was speaking with you."
Salvia fell silent. She wanted Floria far from this man—one whose reputation alone inspired fear. Though merely an earl's son, Warren was a close ally of the king's younger brother. His ruthlessness was well known—and Salvia had witnessed it herself.
"I believe Mr. Miller has been looking for you, Lady Salvia," Warren added smoothly. "It wouldn't do to keep your suitor waiting."
Salvia frowned, sensing his intent to separate them. She hesitated, then hugged Floria once more—tightly, meaningfully.
"Take care," she whispered. "We'll meet again. Won't we?"
Floria's heart ached. "We will, Sal. I promise."
Salvia departed, leaving Floria alone with Warren.
"Miss Chamber," he said thoughtfully, "I feel as though I've seen you somewhere before. Have we met?"
Floria stiffened. Please don't let him have seen me anywhere…
"Pardon me, but I don't believe we have," she replied calmly.
He laughed lightly. "No need to apologize. My mistake."
He handed her a glass of water. "You didn't seem fond of the wine."
"Thank you," she said, taking a few sips. Nothing happened—yet she caught the subtle relaxation in his posture.
"You seem close to Lady Salvia," he observed.
"We used to be friends."
"So you aren't anymore?" His gaze sharpened. "Miss Saipon—correct me if I'm wrong."
Her heart skipped. "Please forgive me, Mr. Davies. I didn't mean to mislead—"
"Oh, please," he waved it off. "I understand. Humans often prefer to stay clear of royal matters."
"I am Warren Davies," he continued. "Left hand of the second prince. Lady Salvia likely still holds a grudge over what happened."
Curiosity overcame caution. "What happened?"
He chuckled softly. "I killed one of her suitors during an assembly."
Seeing her stiffen, he explained, "The man was a spy. We found notes and substances capable of harming both humans and vampires. Whoever orchestrated it harbored deep hatred."
Floria nodded. "Is it true there's tension between Zarafeth and Mornareth?"
"There is," Warren replied, thoughtful. "But no solid proof. Still—haven't you heard? Those closest to us strike first."
"But the treaty exists to prevent such conflicts," Floria said.
"Treaties don't restrain greed," he replied.
She hadn't realized how long they'd spoken until she felt the stares—envy, disdain, suspicion. Smiling politely, she said, "Thank you for the company. It's late—my parents must be waiting."
"It was a pleasure," Warren said. "You're quite knowledgeable for a commoner. Ever thought of joining the Imperial Council?"
She smiled faintly. "I run a library in Ironvale. Reading is an occupational habit."
"Admirable. Far better than idle women," he said. "Allow me to escort you."
After thanking the Hetlores, Floria entered her carriage. As it rolled away into the night, she exhaled—relieved.